I Was Barbie's Bestie

 

Portrait of the Author as a Young Freckle Face (are those Barbies next to me?)

We don’t go to many movies in theaters these days. But there are some films that simply MUST be viewed on the big screen, like those blockbuster action/adventure flicks, all starring George Clooney, Keanu Reeves and Sandra Bullock. Matrix-17 doesn’t pack quite the same punch at home as it does, sound jacked waaaaay up, while sitting in a soda-soaked cinema seat with a $20 small popcorn on your lap, right?

But Barbie? We definitely could have watched that one later on, chez Seyfried. By last weekend’s opening, though, I’d read enough reviews and analysis of it to write a dissertation—I just HAD to be among the first to experience this movie! I was prepared to go solo, but to my surprise Stevo was game to join me.

 

For those of you who are planning to see Barbie (and I encourage this decision), or who just can’t stand to read one more line about it at this time, I will spare you. No lengthy paragraphs on Ken and the patriarchy, or Barbie’s through-the-looking-glass journey into the Real World. Suffice it to say, we both loved it—for us, it hit every note. Different actors played each of the Barbies (Doctor Barbie, President Barbie, etc.—the Main Barbie, played by Margot Robbie, actually referred to herself as Stereotypical Barbie), and many were the Kens as well. HOWEVER…

 

I was a bit sad to see Midge, Barbie’s BFF, get relatively short shrift. Because, as a child, I played with my Barbies a lot, but I WAS Midge. She wasn’t the tall blond beauty (nor was I) but instead the freckle-faced sidekick doll. I worked Midge into every playtime scenario, and thought she was wonderful. I gave her a heartwarming backstory, and a secret talent (novelist). Midge never stole Barb’s limelight, but was over in the corner, looking perky, scribbling away—yet always there when her friend was in need of rescue, or maybe just a sharpened pencil.

 

Alas, Mattel wasn’t as wild about Midge as I was. At some point she disappeared from the stores, and, except for a brief, pretty horrific return as “Happy Family Midge” (she had a plastic baby in her tummy that COULD BE REMOVED!) my spunky, speckled friend was retired for good. 

 

Looking back, how did it feel to identify with a minor supporting character? I really didn’t mind. Resigned in real life to being no one’s idea of a glamour girl, Midge had given me hope that I could still be part of the popular, pinker than pink scene. 

 

I have mixed emotions about Barbie—empowered and multi-careered as the doll’s character has become over the years, she’s still impossibly pretty, and for the littlest girls, bewilderingly “developed.” But I applaud Greta Gerwig for making such a fun and thought-provoking movie. 

 

For the inevitable sequel, I vote to feature a different doll. Let’s focus at last on that true-blue bestie who is, in her own freckly way, even somewhat attractive. 

 

Let’s make Midge the star.

 Photo of Barbie by Sandra Gabriel on Unsplash

Shazaam!

Photo by Tim Alex on Unsplash

Fun party ice breaker: ask the revelers the name of Oscar Wilde’s novel about a man whose mirror image ages, but he does not. Then ask if there are shades on the sun cartoon on the Raisin Bran box. For good measure, ask them to spell a popular shoe brand that rhymes with “fetchers.” Chances are, they will answer wrong (and so would I, had I not researched for this post). 

 

Answers:  

*It’s The Picture of Dorian Gray, NOT The Portrait of Dorian Gray

*The cartoon cereal box sun NEVER wore sunglasses

*The shoes are “skechers”, NOT “sketchers”

 

I could go on and on about the discrepancies between our collective memories, and the truth. Misremembering is a very common thing. Often, those events we think we recall from earliest childhood, can be chalked up to old photographs, or stories told by family members. To this day, I am not certain that, as a baby, I fell out of my crib onto a broken glass formula bottle. I clearly remember my dad picking glass out of my little back, and that my mom was not home—she was out doing some evening grocery shopping at Gristede’s Market. But did people really put their kids to bed with glass bottles, even back in 1957? Is it possible that I just sub-consciously wanted my father to be a loving and nurturing parent (neither of which he really was)? 

 

But what’s most fascinating to me, is when a huge number of us misremember things the exact same way. Two prime examples: many, many people think African anti-apartheid leader Nelson Mandela died in prison in the early 1980s (he actually passed away decades after his release, in 2013, after serving as South Africa’s president). On a lighter note, tons of folks swear there was a movie called Shazaam! starring comedian Sinbad playing a genie. In reality, they're probably thinking of the movie Kazam, starring basketball superstar Shaquille O’Neal as—this part is true—a genie. 

 

This tendency of ours to assume, and to internalize those assumptions, is only human. But it’s also a real problem. Lawyers could speak at length about the inconsistencies of “eyewitnesses” to car accidents, for example. And of course, now, in this post-truth world, it’s so hard to know whether all these false statements are being spouted knowingly, or from deeply held misunderstandings. Which is why I’d never actually USE the above-suggested party ice breaker; I’d be too afraid my guests would depart in self-righteous huffs, long before dinner was served.

 

Don’t know if there’s a solution, but the closest I can come is this: let’s try to be open to the possibility that we’re wrong. Being wrong is not the end of the world, but refusing to entertain the thought that we’re mistaken is the root of so much that IS wrong: broken relationships, bad legislation, close-minded notions of faith. 

 

One thing I do know for sure, though. There IS a cornucopia on the Fruit of the Loom logo.

 

Or is there?

Image by LillyCantabile from Pixabay

 

 

 

 

The Flaneurs

  

Yeah, sure, that's what THIS part of the street is called

I never intentionally wander aimlessly when traversing a new town or city. Indeed, I clutch my maps and phone for dear life, because if there’s anything I fear, it’s getting lost. 

Which, of course, means I DO get lost, all the time. Sheer panic sets in immediately, and my brain goes straight to dangerous scenarios: thieves lurking in the shadows, kidnappers ready to pounce—or even just never, ever finding my way back to the hotel, and eventually dying alone on the streets of Barcelona, or Venice (both of which have really sparse and misleading signage—in Venice, a street may have one name, and mid-block it suddenly has a NEW name. How delightfully random!)

 

I am a happy camper when I know precisely where I’m bound and exactly how to get there. I realize this approach does NOT include strolling casually around, taking in surprising sights and sounds, checking out this or that cute shop or bistro. Let others have their fun discoveries! All I want to discover is the museum I have actually planned, in advance, to visit…and the correct metro station to get me, safely and swiftly, back to my lodging. I do better traveling with a companion for sure, figuring that one of us can run for help while the other is being mugged.

 

The French have a word for one who sets off on a walk without directions, confident that pleasant adventure awaits: flaneur. A flaneur enjoys the journey and doesn’t get concerned about reaching a particular destination. These are the folks who post on Trip Advisor: “In Salzburg, Betty Sue and I discovered this incredible sausage stall down a dark alley! Very, very hard to find but worth it!” Now, I will take that flaneur’s recommendation and drill down, locating the precise spot where the bosna (local curry sausages, and they are delicious) are sold, and heading directly there, with zero “fun” detours. Mission accomplished, quickly and efficiently! Isn’t that what travel is all about?

 

My offspring tend to be MUCH more casual about their itineraries. I break out in a rash when I hear Evan discuss his rambles through Indonesia, or Rose her night market roaming in Thailand. Don’t they know there are perils around every corner? Their mother sure does! 

 

Sometimes I wish I had even one spontaneous bone in my body, but alas! My life hews to a script of my own creation, as closely as possible. I realize I’m missing out on all of life’s serendipitous experiences, but I’d rather rocket directly from Point A to B and eventually to Z, checking everything off as I race through my years. I don’t know why I am so surprise-averse, but at age 66 I doubt I’ll change my ways. 

 

Steve and I are hoping to get over to England and Scotland next spring, and I’m already mapping out our every conceivable move. Praise be to Rick Steves!

 

Guess that makes me less of a flaneur, and more of a… plan-eur?

Evan, cheerfully lost in the Dolomite Mountains

D.I.Y. Holiday

  

Yeah, yeah, Independence Day, blah, blah

Don’t know about you, but I’m a tad irked that there are only a few holidays on the calendar specifically to celebrate ME. There’s my birthday (December 22, for those who like to plan their cards and gifts to me ahead of time), Mother’s Day/Grandparents Day, and I guess you could throw in my wedding anniversary, though I have to share that one with Steve. When, I ask, is Freelance Writer’s Day? Retired Church Worker Day? Children’s Theatre Veteran’s Day? I plod through the year, most often totally neglected.

 

But no more!! I just read the most inspiring and empowering news! It is now a thing to Create My Own Holiday! This stellar 24-hour span can be designed to my personal specifications, but also (very important), it can be added to official holiday directories. It can be covered by media outlets! Imagine the thrill of knowing that people around the country (or even, the globe) are getting the day off work, or at least exchanging festive greetings, in honor of some random thing I cooked up.

 

The article I read offers this sage advice: “Avoid dates that are associated with bigger holidays or other special occasions.” Well, that certainly makes common sense! It’s likely, for example, that the notoriety around July 4^th (marking our independence from England, a silly thing) might conceivably overshadow my concept of, say, The Fourth of July as “National Non-Bike Riders Day” (celebrants would defiantly WALK or DRIVE THEIR CARS everywhere, perhaps tooting those ridiculous bicycle horns festooned with streamers). I can see the T-shirts now-- a picture of a Schwinn with a big red line crossing it out. Now THAT'S a snappy logo!

 

Other must-to-avoid dates would include, I suppose, Memorial Day, Labor Day, and Thanksgiving Day. But a quick glance at any of the big holiday calendars tells me that they are also chock-a-block with frivolous commemorations of things like “National Watermelon Day” “World Smile Day” and “Hoodie Hoo Day” (a random February day when you’re supposed to call people up and say “Hoodie Hoo!” to them. As Dave Barry would put it, I’m not making this up.) 

 

So, it might be tough to find a blank spot on which to scribble the addition of my Very Special Holiday. Assuming I can snag one, I would next select my theme, send out a press release, and get busy contacting CNN, Fox, and The Weather Channel, all of whom would be delighted to help spread the word, I’ve no doubt. After all, we’re so sick and tired of gloomy doomy news, right? What better way to perk up the population than decreeing next Monday to be “Hug a Hamster Day”? Our furry little rodent friends would enjoy it also (do caution your children not to squeeze too hard, of course!) 

Easy does it there!

At the moment, my top two contenders are: “Take Your Favorite Spiritual Humor Writer to Lunch Day” and (cutting to the chase), “Elise Seyfried Day.” 

 

What do you think? Vote early and often, my friends!!

Nesting

Looks inviting, no?

I remember being pregnant, and reading everything I could get my hands on about that glorious/nauseous time of life. The hugely popular What to Expect When You’re Expecting had just been published, and I may have been one of the first readers. I recall learning about the “nesting instinct,” which kicks in during the last month or two. Like other female members of the animal kingdom, moms-to-be have a compulsion to scurry around, making the “nest” ready for the little one to come. I read about meticulously organized baby clothes, painted nurseries, pre-addressed thank you notes, stockpiled Gerber strained beets. When would MY nesting instinct kick in? At nine months along, I was still wildly disorganized, with my baby shower gifts still in boxes and my baby food cupboard bare (had to have room for all those craving cookies, right?)

I’ve since heard of other preggos who didn’t really “nest,” so I’m feeling a bit better. But it did get me thinking about the concept of nesting. Truth be told, what actually got me thinking was the sudden appearance of grass and straw under my A/C unit in my home office, accompanied by wild chirping sounds. Yep, a mother bird was setting up housekeeping on my windowsill. What to do? Steve and I pried open the window, and kind of cleared away the existing nest materials, in hopes of discouraging her (much as landlords stop repairing things so that the tenants will leave and they can raise the rent). Alas!! Mother B is not easily dissuaded from this prime bit of real estate. This morning I noticed another tell-tale trail of greenery emerging. 

 

I’m tempted to just let things be, especially since we leave for six weeks at the beach soon. What’s the worst that can happen? A huge batch of baby finches flying around my desk upon my return? Yeah. That would be pretty bad.

Then there are those clever Russian nesting dolls, of which we have several sets. These lovely painted dolls always fascinated the kids. For about five minutes. Then they’d lose the tinier pieces, and lose interest in the rest. “Hey, let’s play with the nesting dolls!” never once escaped their lips. I’d find myself putting them back together and then away, which was harder than it sounds, because I’d always end up with one less or one extra doll. 

 

The only reliable nests I make, are the ones in my heart. Friends old and new, tiny additions to our family, even cherished books and pieces of music, all have their cozy spots deep inside. The problem is, when the nests empty, they don’t disappear. So, I’m left with gaping holes--when the kids move out, when the friendships die, when the books are forgotten and the music goes out of tune. There’s no replacing what's lost. 

My kiddos, once upon a time

But there’s beauty in the bounty, the record of love in my empty nests. I wouldn’t trade them for the world.

 

Hey! Maybe the windowsill birds can move in!

Casting Spells

 

I recently wrote an essay for Next Avenue magazine, about the decline of cursive handwriting. There’s no denying that it’s used much less often than it was in days of yore, especially since the advent of the personal computer. My piece makes an argument to continue teaching it, and encouraging children and youth to practice using script. If we let this skill disappear, we may someday be unable to read vital parts of our handwritten past, a terrible loss.

 

And how about spelling? With spellcheck, autocorrect and other electronic aids, our errors are instantly remedied--although who among us has not had autocorrect insist that we’re trying to write “mustache” instead of “mistake”? Add in all the acronyms (ROFL! TMI! LMK! NVM!); why, it’s a wonder anyone bothers spelling anything anymore. 

 

Are spelling bees still popular? I know the Scripps National Bee finals are televised every year, so some kids somewhere are spelling up a storm. What I always loved about the bees was that I could tap into my inner wildly aggressive competitor, and be rewarded for it. Not for me the athletic fields of play, where soccer or softball or hockey stars fought their prodigious battles! The spelling bees were my sole opportunities to engage in combat, in front of an appreciative audience, no less. There was no heart-stopping thrill like being in the final two, just me and Rosie Gaffney, when the words would buzz rapidly back and forth until one of us messed up. With a smirk of triumph, I would nail “arrhythmic,” and be lavishly rewarded with yet another Miraculous Medal to add to my collection. 

 

My spellbound youth came rushing back to me on Saturday, when I saw the great Tony award winning musical The 25^th Annual Putnam County Spelling Bee. The familiar characters were there (exaggerated for humorous effect): the arrogant whiz kid, the reluctant contestant pushed by ambitious parents, the kid whose folks didn’t show up at all, the underachiever who surprisingly did very well. To make the show even more enjoyable, audience members who were interested were selected to join the cast onstage as fellow “spellers” during the play. The gag was that these folks got the easy words (“Your word is cow.” “Use it in a sentence, please?” “All right. Your---word---is---cow.”) while the performers got the multisyllabic nightmares. The overarching message of the show (we have our challenges, but, in our own unique ways, when we care for each other, we’re all winners) was very satisfying. 

 

Maybe spelling, like cursive, is a dying art. Perhaps the dictionary will eventually go the way of the dinosaur. But I worry about us humans relinquishing so much control to machines. Spelling builds brainpower, and helps us make sense of language. Why give that up?

 

For me, I’ll remember that it’s I before E except (usually) after C. This knowledge has served me well.

 

And I’ll never quit spelling, as long as there’s enough breath in my body to tackle “antidisestablishmentarianism.” 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It's Ulterior!

He gets the brownie just because he's cute!

“There are always two reasons for doing a thing: One is a good reason, and the other is the real reason.”  --Mrs. Walter Helm, quoted in “Ulterior Motives” by Dr. Iskra Fileva in Psychology Today

 

Ah, would that it were a black and white world, with pure, singular motivations for doing what we do!! It’d be so simple to know that Dr. Evil is always up to no good, right? And Paula Perfect eternally acts in others’ best interests just because she cares?

 

But alas, this is reality, guys. And, more often than not, we humans operate on several levels, in our thoughts and our actions too. Of course I offer my sweet-toothed grandson Peter the last brownie, ONLY because I want him to be happy! It has NOTHING to do with the fact that I want to get that chocolatey temptation off my own plate! 

See what I mean? 

 

The same goes for my writing career. Do I write for the money? Yes, and no. I will say that it is not my primary motivator. I write a decent amount for little to no compensation, especially when it’s in service to a cause I believe in. Indeed, if it were just all about the Benjamins, I’d be a neurosurgeon instead! Or a barista! 

 

Do we dress up for a special date in a four-star restaurant because we are eager to flaunt our fancy outfit? Or do we do it because we want to show our appreciation for the treat? Both? Do we help that little old lady across the street because, as my Mom would say, “we’ll get our crown in Heaven”? Is it because we realize that our fate is to BE that little old lady someday, and we hope some kind younger soul will guide US across Roosevelt Boulevard in the future? Or is it that she’s walking so darned slowly in front of you that you’re going to be late for work if you don’t speed her along?

 

It's complicated.

 

The French phrase for ulterior motive, arrière pensée, can be literally translated as “behind thought.” Like many French phrases, using the literal translation in English makes you sound weird. “Avoir le cafard” means “being down in the dumps”, but you’re really saying you’re “having the cockroach.” 

 

I digress.

 

Having hidden intentions, ulterior motives, is normal, and not necessarily nefarious. I would argue that very few of us are always, and solely, acting from a rarefied place of total selflessness and loving kindness. Deeeeep down, we are often asking “What’s in it for me?” This is why the Nature Conservancy sends us sheets of address labels with pretty bluebirds on them, absolutely free. Yes, they’re a fabulous organization, but they also hope we’ll use one of those snazzy labels to mail them a hefty donation!  

 

I want to believe you’re reading my blog right now because you love my writing, NOT because you’re procrastinating about emptying the dishwasher. I know better—but hey! I’ll take it! 

Photo Ivan Bertolazzi on Pexels

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Tradwife-ing

There she is, Mrs. America!
(Photo ArtsyBee on Pixabay)

As I sometimes feel an obligation to be informative here on the blog, today’s post is educational. It deals with the “tradwife” (traditional wife) movement, and I am guessing most of my readers are as ignorant as I was (until just the other day) about it. We can fix that! Let’s dig in, shall we? 

Many young people are rebelling against their own upbringing, when they watched their working moms exhaustedly try to juggle full time employment with full time caregiving and home management. They’re looking back to the halcyon days of yore, the 1950s to be precise, when everything was…just…you know…better. We’ve seen the “Leave it to Beaver” reruns! Who among us women hasn’t dreamed of vacuuming in our high heels and pearls, right?

 

So, of course, the incubator for the tradwife fad has been: TikTok. There, one can find many videos of Barbie-fied young women wearing vintage dresses and frilly aprons, cooking from-scratch meals, and singing the praises of being stay-at-home wifeys and moms. These gals don’t want to bother their pretty little heads with the pesky concerns of careers and finance. They defer in all things to their husbands, which is clearly what God intended. Btw, God also clearly intended for men to wear fedoras every day, and to don slippers to read the evening paper while awaiting dinner. God must be so disappointed in us!! The evening paper isn’t even published anymore!!

 

While it isn’t quite as ridiculous as a yearning to return to, say, the Great Depression would be, wannabe tradwives should keep in mind the dark underbelly of the Fabulous Fifties. It wasn’t all hair appointments and bridge clubs! It was also a time before civil rights, and many women’s rights too. Father Knows Best was a given, even if “father” was a real jerk. Far too many women were stuck, forever, in miserable marriages. Good luck striking out on your own, girls, with no credit card, checking account, or access to a well-paying job! 

 

Like all fads, I predict the tradwife will eventually go the way of the Twist and Pet Rocks. While there is a tiny grain of truth underpinning the movement (today’s women ARE expected to do it all, and it can be really soul-sucking), I don’t think the answer is to surrender our hard-won agency at the door. I for one have no intention of asking Steve for an allowance, or permission to buy that cute frock in the window of Bailey’s Dress Shoppe. I’m proud that my daughters earn good money working in challenging careers. I cannot imagine them wearing frilly aprons, except ironically. 

 

The grass is always greener when we look at the past through the lens of nostalgia. And some of our modern world is problematic for sure (don’t get me started on AI !!) But let’s be careful when we try to revive the “good old days.” Bringing back family meals and board games? Sure! TV dinners (especially that yucky Salisbury steak) and oppression? No thank you!!

My NYC career women out on the town